Fithos
by AnteNomad
Summary: In the aftermath of war against the Sorceress Adel, as a new empire rises and old powers fall, the parents of the fated children strive to cope with a world turning upside down.
1. Living History

_**FINAL FANTASY VIII** and related characters, locations, and weird-looking words are copyright © 1998 by Square, save those which were ripped out of some obscure mythology. Either way, this author owns them not. Events detailed within represent only the personal ideas of the author, and should not be taken to represent the ideas or intentions of Squaresoft of the **FINAL FANTASY VIII** staff. (At times, the in-story timeline may directly contradict events as described within the game, because the game history is rather self-contradictory itself. (The repetition of "self" in that statement is solely due to the inadequacy of the English language, and should not be construed as a slip on the author's part.)) This story is fictional, unofficial, and created solely for entertainment purposes; if any profit is made through its display and use of aforementioned items, then it is made without the author's knowledge or consent, and is therefore not the author's fault. Duplication of this work without the author's permission and especially without giving said author due credit will seriously annoy him. This text applies whether you read it or not. All your base are belong to us._

—

**FATALIS**

—

The life of the Sorceress is traditionally understood through four principal events: _Fithos_, _Lusec_, _Wecos_, and _Vinosec_. These, it is believed, are the defining moments of every Sorceress; how the first two events unfold determines how she will behave in life, which in turn defines how the latter two will transpire. As the Sorceress is held to be a fusion of a mortal human with the living spirit of Hyne, these events carry a profound effect or are affected by everyone who has held or will in the future hold the power of the Sorceress.

_Fithos_, or birth, is the first event. At birth, she is not yet a Sorceress and, by whim of fate, might never be. Yet this marks the beginning of the time when she must grow as herself and not as the descendant of Hyne. Since she cannot expect to become a Sorceress, her success will depend entirely on her strength of character; and when she does receive Hyne's power, what sort of person she will determine what sort of a Sorceress she will be. Thus, Fithos is considered the most important event in the Sorceress' life.

—

**F I T H O S**

_a FINAL FANTASY VIII fan fiction_

—

_In the year 2055 on the western calendar, the Dollet Dukedom declared war against the nation of Esthar, marking the beginning of what became known as the Second Sorceress War. After three years of fighting, Dollet successfully beat back Esthar's armies, but the war had nonetheless taken its toll. Revolution in Galbadia, fueled by defectors from Dollet's army, created a new, potent force on the continent; while Esthar held Dollet under siege, it was Galbadian militiamen who liberated the province of Winhill and protectorate of Timber. While Dollet won the war, it had lost its empire, and the status quo that had held since the fall of Centra was nothing more than a memory._

—

**December 09, 2058**

_**21 years prior to the Third Sorceress War**_

**Central Lanker Command Center, Timber City**

The Major was still in his combat uniform when he entered the General's office. He had been summoned immediately after completing his unit's patrol through the dense forest that surrounded the city of Timber, and had not so much as sat down for the past seven hours; but an immediate summons from the force commander was to be taken extremely seriously.

So, helmet tucked under his left arm, he had walked straight from the debriefing center to the administration complex while his men headed for the locker room and showers.

"I'm Major Caraway, from Division Six," he said, stepping up to the attendant who was substantially more appropriately dressed in base fatigues. "The General summoned me?"

The other man nodded. "Yes, of course. He's expecting you, Major; go on in."

Caraway's brow furrowed in surprise at not even being made to wait; but with a nod in response, he went on through the door at the other end of the reception room, snapping a salute as soon as he was inside. The man seated at the small, simple wooden desk did take a moment to acknowledge him, first committing a list that Caraway couldn't read from his angle to a sheet of paper before him.

"At ease, Major," he said eventually, without looking up. "I'll be with you in a moment." Standing, he walked past Caraway to the door, handing the paper to his attendant. "Have this radioed on the second circuit immediately," he said. "I want confirmation from all the area commanders within the hour."

"Yes, sir." The attendant took the files and left, closing the door behind him.

Caraway watched the man as he returned to his desk and sat down, still not looking directly back at him. General Deling was a man of fairly average height and build; however, he held a remarkably straight posture, and all his actions were taken with a marked precision indicative of strict military self-discipline. His face confirmed the air of cold intensity that seemed to radiate from the man.

"How long have you had your command in Division Six, Major?"

"Three years, sir," Caraway replied immediately.

Deling nodded. "And what was your position before that?"

"I was a unit commander in the Dollet Army, sir. The four-fortieth, stationed in North Monterosa."

"Well, Major." For the first time, the General spared a moment to look at him. "What was it that led you to abandon your men and your country so easily?"

"With all respect to the General, I did no such thing," Caraway replied. "The decision to defect was made by all those in my unit, as soon as the revolution began. Galbadia _is_ my country, as it was for all of them."

"And yet you served ten years as a Dollet musketeer," Deling replied. "You do not see this as a case of divided loyalty?"

"No, sir." Caraway wondered what it was the General was doing. A huge portion of Galbadia's militia was made up of former Dollet soldiers who had defected during the three-year revolution; his was hardly a special case. "Before the revolution, it was Dollet's army that protected my homeland from foreign intrusion, and kept the monsters out of the cities. I joined the Ducal Army to protect my home of Galbadia. For that reason, it was obvious what side I should choose when the revolution began." Deling seemed to have lost interest, and was again shuffling through the papers on his desk; however, Caraway was of the mind that the General was listening as intently as ever. "I wish only to serve Galbadia," he said, "in the best way possible."

Deling scratched his signature onto a sheet of paper before him. "You're quite well-spoken for a soldier, Major. I assume you attended university during your officer's training."

Caraway nodded. "East Academy, sir." In a moment of temerity, he added, "I believe I began attendance in the year following your graduation, sir."

That did cause Deling to look up, though he made no other acknowledgment of Caraway's implication. "What did you study at East Academy, Major?"

"Political science and history, sir."

"Politics and history," the general mused. "Do you suppose it could be said that politics _is_ history, only viewed in the short term without context?"

Now, Caraway was completely lost as to what was going on. "...I certainly think the two are closely related, sir."

"But politics are an active field," said Deling, finishing the sentence Caraway hadn't meant to continue at all. "The study of history is an accounting of things that happened long ago, well beyond our influence." He set down the files, fixing Caraway with a direct, piercing gaze. "But there is the error. History is happening all around us, especially in times such as these. And what governs the fate of men and nations more powerfully than the art of politics?" He gestured out his window at the evening skyline of Timber, with most buildings dark in observance of what was, for now, a voluntary nighttime blackout. "Politics and war. This is history right here, General, and it's already being made. The real trick is what determines whether your name will feature in the story itself or simply the footnotes—or not at all."

"...I think I understand, sir," said Caraway. He did, although he still had no idea why he was being told any of this to begin with.

Deling may have guessed at this distinction. "Major, I called you here to make a judgment about your character. You've had an exemplary service record so far, in both the armies you have chosen to serve." He stood, now fixing Caraway with a steady gaze. "By tomorrow, it will be public knowledge that an armistice has been reached between Dollet and the Nation of Esthar. For all principal concerns, Major, the war is over."

Caraway blinked. Despite the rumors that progress was being made in the talks, this was a revelation that he was certainly unprepared for.

"Moreover," Deling continued, "all parties have agreed to recognize the existence of the Galbadian Republic, with precise borders to be determined later." He smiled thinly. "Dollet and Esthar have kindly chosen to grant us what we have already taken for ourselves. As a result of all this, we will be significantly scaling back our military presence in this region. A force will remain to assist in the training of the local military, but you, I, and most of our commands will be withdrawn to Galbadia over the next few months.

"Back in Galbadia, we will find ourselves faced with completing the task of transforming this militia into a legitimate army. I called you here to determine whether you merited consideration for advancement in that army. At this point, I am inclined to believe that you do."

Caraway nodded, still attempting to reconcile all the new information he had been given. "Thank you, sir."

"For the time being, have your troops prepare for departure," Deling said. Then he saluted, catching Caraway slightly off guard with the gesture. "We're just at the beginning of history, Major. And if we're quite lucky, history may remember our work with favor. That'll be all."

"Thank you, sir," Caraway replied. Turning with drilled precision, he showed himself out of the office and headed back for the barracks where his troops were housed.


	2. Piano Night

**- ****2059**** -****  
**

_**June 1**_

**Republic Executive Hotel, Galbadia city  
20:43 Monterosa Daylight Time**

Nothing short of a full blackout had been able to stifle Galbadia's legendary nightlife; and now, with Dollet gone and the city free, the after-hours population had come back with a vengeance. The downtown had been one of the first areas of the city to be rebuilt, and the city was once again alive with the bustle of activity. Not only that, but the soldiers who had recently fought for Galbadia's freedom were not yet exhausted of the revels of victory, and provided a steady source of income for tavern owners working to get back on their feet.

In the midst of the city's downtown, on a street clogged with traffic and littered with discarded trash and bottles of alcohol, stood the Executive Hotel, where not too long ago Dollet's dignitaries had rested during their visits from the capital. Now, the building was open to the public as a sort of symbolic move, yet the hotel's new management was still concerned with maintaining an appearance of class, as the high prices and extravagant atmosphere within indicated.

Three men, clad in the blue uniforms of the Galbadian Militia, made their way toward the hotel on this particular night. Passing through the crowds of people mingling on the sidewalks, they would have stood out even (or especially) without the blue-suits and armor. The leader seemed normal enough, though slightly hunched and with unruly dark hair falling past his shoulders. The first of his companions, however, was a tall, thin, dark-skinned man who wore his hair in thin braids that reached nearly to his waist. The third man, a huge fellow with a blue bandanna, stood a full foot above most of the crowd. Together, they made quite an interesting sight.

"Aaah!" cried out the first man, bending over and awkwardly lifting up his boot in an attempt to examine the sole. He seemed to have picked up a wrapper that once had held some Esthar delicacy. "What is all this trash doing around here, anyway?"

"The garbage trucks aren't running," said the second man, flatly.

"Yeah, I heard they're still busy rebuilding the station," agreed the third.

"Well, what's up with that?" the first man protested. "I mean, why would someone bomb a sanitation plant anyway? It's just mean!"

"Peripheral, one might call it," said the second man.

"Hey, Laguna," asked the third. "What are we doing in this part of town, anyway? I know a great little bar out by the South Gate, and it's a lot cleaner than the downtown. Less crowded, too."

"Yeah, but why settle for that place when we can come _here_?" the first man replied. "I mean, the service is great, the booze is terrific, and, uh..." He looked to the second man. "Kiros, you're with me, right?"

"I didn't see what's so great about it," Kiros replied.

"You're kidding!" Laguna looked almost pleadingly between the two. "Seriously, Ward, don't you think the booze is better here?"

"Not really," Ward said.

Kiros shook his head. "Worse, I'd say."

"And it's more expensive, too."

"And the service is terrible."

"_WHATEVER_!" Laguna cut them off. "Anyway, we're here, aren't we? So we might as well go in, right? Come on!"

Kiros and Ward exchanged a look before following Laguna into the hotel. By the time they were in the door, Laguna was already halfway down a set of ornate stairs that led from the hotel's reception room to a quiet restaurant and bar. This was meant primarily for the hotel guests, but since very few people were interested in visiting Galbadia at the moment, it had been opened to the general public, which mostly meant soldiers as they were among the few Galbadians who were getting a salary. Directly to the left of the stairs coming down was a raised stage, on which sat a microphone, and a piano to one side. The place was relatively empty, as there were bars with cheaper drinks and louder music as close as the building next door.

Nonetheless, Laguna led his companions down the stairs with barely contained enthusiasm. Glancing furtively at the unoccupied piano, he nearly ran across to the waiter, who greeted them with a curt, professional nod.

"Mr. Loire?" he asked.

"Yeah, that's me!" Laguna declared, thumping his chest. "Kiros and Ward here are with me."

"Very good, sir." The waiter motioned to the table nearest the stage. "Your table is ready."

"You made a reservation?" Ward asked, glancing at Laguna.

"Come on, guys!" Laguna broke off in a run, outstepping the waiter in a dash to the table. "Waiter, get us three of the usual!"

"The...usual," the waiter repeated tonelessly.

"Beer," Kiros explained.

The waiter raised an eyebrow. "Very well. Three...beers." He made a note on his writing pad. "Would you like a complementary...pretzel with that, sir?"

Oblivious to the waiter's disdain, Laguna shook his head. "No, just the drinks. And keep them coming!"

"I'll have a keg prepared specifically for you, sir," the waiter said, turning to leave.

Kiros and Ward took their seats. "So it looks like we got here in time," Ward said. "Right, Laguna?"

Laguna blinked, shaking his head. "W-what do you mean? I just wanted to have a friendly drink with you guys! You know, to celebrate Galbadia's freedom and all!"

"She's playing tonight, isn't she?" Kiros asked.

"What? Who?"

"Come on, Laguna," Ward said. "You always want to come here on Friday nights. It's not hard to figure out you aren't coming for the drinks."

Laguna shook his head vigorously. "Hey, I don't know what you guys are talking about!"

Ward sighed, looking at Kiros. "He's hopeless, isn't he?"

Kiros nodded. "Clueless, one might say."

"Definitely _something_-less, anyway."

"Hey, guys, I just—" Laguna cut himself off as he noticed the rising glow of spotlights on the stage. Two women entered from opposite sides of the raised platform: one of about average height, with flowing dark hair and a red dress, the other slightly taller and blond, with a sparkling black gown. They approached the center and shook each other's hands, before the first woman returned to the piano and took her seat. The second woman stepped to the microphone.

Laguna sat transfixed by the woman at the piano. Without looking up, she shuffled through the music on the piano, and experimentally played a sequence of notes rolling up and down the scale. Her movements, however, seemed almost hypnotic, and as the music began, Laguna felt like his own body had ceased to exist.

And it showed. The blond woman began to sing, but Laguna didn't even register the words. His two companions didn't pay much attention either, focusing most of their attention on Laguna himself.

"Hey, Kiros, you think he's all right?"

"Hard to say, with him."

"He looks like he's gone brain-dead."

The piece wasn't one Laguna recognized, but he wasn't very well-versed in music. He did think, however, that it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. And _that_ showed, too.

"Your beers, sir."

"He's...busy. Just leave them here."

She was some twenty feet away, but still Laguna thought he could sense something about her expression? What was it? Sadness? Regret? Longing?

Was she looking at him?

Quickly, he turned his attention to his beer.

"It's a little sad."

"Consider our friend's history with women. This is really his best relationship yet."

Furtively, Laguna glanced back towards the piano. The woman was apparently following her place in her music, but now, he imagined there was almost a smile tugging at her lips.

_Did she see me?_ he wondered. _What'll she think of me now? Probably that I'm just some dork with nothing better to do than come into bars and gawk at the players. I bet I just blew any shot I ever had with her._ He shook his head. _Yeah, right! Like she would ever have been interested in a loser like me anyway. In my dreams!_

"You know, she _is_ pretty talented."

"Yeah. Singer's not half bad, either. I guess he just doesn't go for blondes, though."

_Man, why do I do this to myself? I know she'll never notice me, but I keep coming in here—totally draining my cash account—just so I can see her!_ Laguna took a long drink of his beer, barely noticing that it was quite bitter. _This has gotta be something unhealthy._

The song ended, and dutiful applause drowned out the end of the music. Laguna joined in, perhaps banging his hands together a little too hard. The two women bowed gracefully, before exiting in the directions from which they had come. When the applause died down, an announcer stepped up to the microphone.

"That was Alyssa Feran, with Julia Heartilly on the piano. Our next performance will be in ten minutes, with Kieran DaLannen and his guitar."

Laguna jumped up, downing the rest of his beer. "Well, guys, it's getting kinda late. Let's hit the town!"

Ward groaned.

—

**Gallatin Army Hall, East Academy  
19:30 Lanker Standard Time**

"I doubt I'm the only one surprised that I'm occupying this stage right now," Deling was saying, as he stood facing a room full of soldiers, behind a podium with the newly designed Seal of the President attached to it. "I said throughout our struggle that I wasn't interested in politics, and that a soldier's role was to fight for our nation, not to rule it. Well, let's hope I can do both at the same time."

There were a few scattered chuckles, but from where he was sitting, Caraway wasn't sure what the joke was. Deling didn't give very good speeches, he had discovered; not that it mattered, since he was so widely revered as the man who had led Galbadia's struggle for independence that he could be a zombied Grat and still net an eighty-six percent approval rating.

"Eighty-six percent!" said the man sitting next to him. "That's unprecedented! Do you know how many other elected officials have netted ratings anywhere _near_ this high?"

"None," Caraway said, while still at least making a show of watching the speech.

"Right! It's _never_ happened! You know what Pasmill's rating was for his last week in office? _Seventeen_ percent. That's one person in six who approved of him as President. Deling's got more than five times that!"

"I know how much seventeen percent is," said Caraway. "And I'm trying to listen to the President."

But the other man was not interested in letting him do so. "What I'm saying is, Deling's been in office for three months, and his ratings are _phenomenal_. The Assembly is rolling over for him because they know the public's on his side, and we've carried out almost as many reforms in three months as the Monterosa Convention did when they wrote the constitution!" The man paused to applaud something Deling had said but Caraway hadn't heard. "The bottom line? Deling's for real."

"I didn't need to be convinced of that," said Caraway. "I served under him in the Militia; I know what the man can do."

"Well, here's the thing, then," said the man. If he had introduced himself, Caraway didn't remember his name. "In a few minutes, the President is going to announce that the new Timber Congress has asked for the full withdrawal of Galbadian troops from their territory."

Caraway blinked. "The new Timber Congress was sworn in eight hours ago."

"Seven and a half, actually. President Quisman made the request on behalf of the new Speaker; it was apparently the Speaker's first action as head of the government."

"And he wants us out of Timber entirely?" asked Caraway. "We'd have to move half the army, including the units stationed here."

"Hold on," said the man, pointing to Deling. Caraway was a little annoyed at being hushed after trying to listen himself for several minutes. The President had paused for a moment in his speech.

"Today also marks the first day of Timber's Sixty-Second Congress," he said. "Sixty-two free and fair elections in a row is a record our hosts may be deservedly proud of, and I am grateful that in my time as a soldier, one of my greatest successes was to help our friends maintain this record in the face of the fierce campaigns of imperial Dollet and tyrannical Esthar. I extend my sincere congratulations to the new Speaker, Mr. Yaulny, and I look forward to a long period of cooperation and friendship with his government.

"However, as the days of imminent threat recede into the past, our concerns become more focused on the efforts to restore the normalcy lost in the Sorceress War. That job is incomplete in Galbadia, and in Timber as well. In that light, Speaker Yaulny has requested, and I willingly agree, that all our Galbadian troops should come home, and leave the defense of this land to its own most capable forces."

The troops were not well-trained enough to prevent a murmur from running through the crowd at this. Deling, in a move choreographed a little too well to be entirely spontaneous, held up his hands and shook his head. "This is a step further than the scaling-back of our presence that has been planned since the end of the war," he said. "But in the end, Timber is the master of its own territory, and we will abide by the will of its rightful government. We are Timber's friend, and as friends we will aid this land as much or as little as we are needed."

Caraway frowned. He had never been active in politics, but he followed the process enough to sense something odd about the way Deling had phrased his statement. He wasn't quite sure what it was that concerned him, yet concerned he suddenly was.

"The President would like to see you at a meeting of the Military Command in Galbadia City," said the man, handing Caraway a card. "He believes that your voice would be valuable there."

"He asked for me personally?" asked Caraway. Despite Deling's words to him the previous December, he had not seen or heard from the President since then. "...What's the purpose of this meeting?"

The man smiled. "The future of our military. I'll see you there, Major."


	3. Acts of Friendship

_**June 13**_

**Galbadia Joint Command Center, Galbadia City  
20:44 MDT**

Although Galbadia had been embroiled in warfare ever since its independence, its military efforts had rarely been coordinated from the republic's capital city, when they had been coordinated at all. Therefore, the nation's military headquarters was still quite new, located along with the president's office in what was left of the old Dollet governor's mansion. The number of offices and personnel it encompassed grew every few weeks as the Galbadian Militia was consolidated and reorganized into the Galbadian Army.

Indeed, Caraway had been there three times in the past two weeks, and each time there was a new addition on the directory — which was, tellingly, a dry-erase board with departments labeled in color-coded marker. This time, there was an entirely new block marked out in blue, which encompassed the three rooms still standing from the building's south wing. "What's that?" he asked the captain who had met him at the gate.

The captain frowned at the diagram. "Those will be the offices for the Naval Command, sir."

Caraway blinked. "We have a navy now?"

"The president's going to convert a few of Cargo and Mail's ships for military use, and transfer the Maritime Corps from the Army Command," said the captain. Then he pointed down the least damaged hallway in the area. "This way, sir."

They started walking. Even half-destroyed, the building retained a considerable amount of its grandeur; Caraway regretted the current plan to demolish it entirely as soon as a new Presidential Residence and Executive Building were built.

"You heard the latest, sir?" asked the captain. "There's a petition from Winhill to change the name of the republic."

Caraway blinked. "Why?"

"They feel the name 'Galbadia' is parochial. Doesn't give enough consideration to the southern regions."

"More than a third of the national population lives in Galbadia City alone," said Caraway.

"That may be what bothers them, sir." The soldier shrugged. "I didn't say it made sense."

They stepped through the heavy double doors that led into the planning center, which had been one of the mansion's dining rooms but now sported the largest concentration of whiteboards anywhere in the complex. A dozen or so Galbadian officers in dress uniform were present, as was Deling; he had traded his own uniform for a business suit.

"Mr. President," Caraway saluted.

"At ease, Colonel," Deling said, as the captain excused himself. Although it had been two weeks since his promotion, Caraway's mind still took a beat to verify that the president had been referring to him. "Let's begin."

They all sat around the elegant dining table that was now mostly hidden by official military files. Deling nodded to two other officers who sat flanking Caraway at the foot of the table. "Colonel Caraway, this is Colonel Brand and Lieutenant Colonel Naraka, both of whom you may already know. The three of you commanded what, in my judgment, were the three most successful Timber-area units during the war; that is the reason you are all here now. I've met with each of you individually over the past few weeks, and I'm sure you've all wondered what I was driving at. Now you'll know."

He nodded to General Hargess, leader of the military's Intelligence Command. The General cleared his throat and nodded to one of the files that had been distributed around the table. "In the blue file, you'll find an assessment of Timber's Sixty-second Congress," he said, "and the impact of its policies on Timber as a whole. The nature of the results is not particularly surprising; however, their gravity is." He paused for effect. "It's a well-known fact that the new congress wishes to privatize Timber's railroad system, and that the move is highly controversial within Timber. Organized labor is protesting fiercely, but we believe the Congress has the votes to proceed."

"I should just impress what a disaster this would be for Galbadia," said the aide who had invited Caraway to Deling City in the first place, but whose name he still didn't know. "Timber isn't only the physical hub for every major railroad line on the continent; the Timber Rail Administration is the sole owner of the trains as well. The cost and availability of rail service is entirely dependent on Timber."

"And so far, Timber has agreed to provide Galbadian citizens low-cost access to the rail system in gratitude for our military presence," said Hargess. "But with our military presence ended, it's unlikely the Congress will continue that policy either — and the matter will be moot if Timber's rail system is privatized."

Deling nodded. "In short, the arrangements we inherited from the Dollet era have left most of our infrastructure for internal transportation owned and operated by a foreign power. Timber's railroads are Galbadia's lifeline. We must ensure that line is not cut."

"Begging your pardon, Mr. President," said Caraway, "but I don't understand the purpose of this meeting. This seems to be a political concern."

"And indeed it would be," said Deling. "But you haven't heard everything yet."

Hargess jumped back in again. "Now if you'll turn your attention to the red file, you'll see an assessment of domestic tensions within Timber. The national unions command considerable influence, and are vehemently opposed to privatization. There is a growing public sentiment that the government has been usurped by wealthy interests who suffered little during the war and have a mind only for profit without concern for those less fortunate. Absent dramatic action by the Congress to redress this problem – and none appears forthcoming – our assessment is that the strife will erupt into full-scale insurrection."

Caraway blinked. "...That's incredible. I had no idea the tensions ran so deep."

"President Quisman has been a leading opponent of the Congress' agenda," said Deling, "and for this very reason. He fears a mass uprising, if the Congress approves privatization, which it is expected to do this week." He leaned forward. "_That_ is where the military comes in. We're currently drawing up plans for a Galbadian intervention in the event that Timber's military is overwhelmed and our assistance is required. You three are familiar with the area and have fought alongside Timber's forces before; it will be your task to coordinate the operation."

"Mr. President, I'm afraid I still don't quite understand," Caraway said. "Has a request been made for a return of Galbadian forces to Timber?"

"At the moment, such a deployment would only inflame the hard-line elements that hold sway in Congress," said Hargess. "However, President Quisman has privately expressed that he would wish Galbadian troops to help stabilize his country, should it come to that."

"Timber's army is perfectly capable of handling any domestic strife," said Caraway. "Many of our soldiers were trained by them."

"The level of unrest may be quite extensive," said Deling. "Timber's army has strong ties to the unions; it may not support the government. For that reason, you are to assume for the purposes of planning that some or all of Timber's military will be hostile to our forces."

"In other words," said Caraway, "you want us to draw up invasion plans."

Deling looked at him cooly. "It is not invasion to help a friend. Now — the three of you will have joint command of this expeditionary force, so approach the matter with that in mind. An outline for a potential deployment has already been prepared by our staff here; I expect full evaluations from each you within the next 48 hours." He stood, obligating all the soldiers to do so as well. "That will be all."

—

**Republic Executive Hotel  
21:09 MDT**

As the spotlights dimmed and the guests dutifully applauded, the woman took a graceful step back from the microphone and made a slight bow. Julia was only partly conscious of all this, as the scene had been repeated so often in her presence that it was unnecessary to pay attention. Gathering her music together in a thin black folder, she stood and crossed the stage with measured grace to shake the hand of the singer. After that formality was completed, she turned and walked off towards the doorway that lay hidden in the shadows beyond the glare of the lights.

"That was Alyssa Feran, with Julia Heartilly on the piano. Our next performance..."

The voice faded as she closed the door behind her. Letting out a breath she unconsciously held in every time she went out on that stage, she walked across the backstage toward the exit.

The singer, a blond woman who was slightly taller than she, was doing the same, absently running a hand through her hair. "I swear, one day those lights are going to make me go bald," she complained.

Julia smiled. "Well, you did a wonderful job out there, Alyssa."

"Thanks. Oh, hey, what was with the sheet music? I can't even remember the last time you didn't have a piece memorized."

She shrugged, as the two started towards the dressing room. "I've just been a little preoccupied lately, and I didn't want to embarrass both of us on stage."

"You can play _Angel Wing_ while Dollet's mortars are bursting outside, but you're afraid you'll forget your music because you're a little preoccupied?" The other woman shook her head. "Something must really be wrong."

Julia sighed. "It's just getting so frustrating." They stepped into the dressing room. "I don't even know how long I've been trying to write lyrics, but I can't think of a single song. I can compose the music fine, but whenever I try to put words to it, my mind just goes blank."

Alyssa nodded understandingly. "I'm sorry. You might just want to begin by singing other people's work, just to get yourself started."

Julia shook her head. "I couldn't do that. I mean, I know a lot of people get started that way, but it just seems wrong."

"Well, then the only advice I can give you is to just write about what you know. When you get the right topic, it all just comes together." Alyssa produced a washcloth, running it under a faucet for a moment before applying it to her makeup.

Julia did the same. "Maybe that's it," she said. "I've always wanted to sing, but I never really knew why. It's not just that I can't put my thoughts into words. I don't even know what my thoughts _are_."

"Well, that can be good," said Alyssa. "It means you haven't reached your potential. You're already a terrific composer; when the words _do_ start coming, you'll have people asking where you've been all their lives."

"Oh, stop it," Julia said good-naturedly. "If anything, it means I'm too scatterbrained to focus long enough to frame an idea. I mean, I can't imagine how you can sing the way you do. One day, you're singing about finding love, the next, losing your love, and all with such passion. When I think about everything you've gone through with Kivan, I don't know how you can sort anything out of that."

Alyssa reached for a towel. "Well, Kivan...is in Dollet," she said as she dried off her face. "So I can just remember the things about him I _want_ to remember. For example, if I'm singing a song about finding love, I can remember how wonderful our first year or so was, and if I'm singing about lost love, I can add that it's all over now." She smiled. "I just leave out these last two years, and I'm fine. How do I look?"

Julia looked at her friend. Short locks of wet hair framed her face, which was not entirely free of makeup just yet. "Horrible."

"Perfect." Alyssa reached for her coat. "They say if you go out without spending half an hour making yourself look beautiful, no one will recognize you. So, can I buy you dinner?"

"Should you?" Julia asked. "I mean, with Kivan gone, and they've cut you back to the ten-minute sessions..."

"Julia, stop worrying about everything," said Alyssa. "I have plenty of money, and Dobbs has me working two other bars now, and I'm not collecting all that savings so I can sit in that big empty house and feel sorry for myself. Now come on — I'm a poor estranged wife all alone in the big city, are you _really_ going to deny me a night on the town?"

Julia nodded. "All right. If you really want to buy me dinner _that_ badly, I suppose I shouldn't complain."

Alyssa nodded triumphantly. "My goodness, Julia, was that a joke? There might be hope for you yet." She placed her hands on her hips. "Now if you would just learn to hurry up with that makeup..."

"Excuse me...Julia?" A young man poked his head through the door, before realizing an instant later what he was doing, and turning away with almost inhuman speed.

Both women laughed at this. "It's all right, Tim, it's me," Alyssa said. "I know I look hideous without my makeup on, but I promise I'm not about to mutate into a Gerogero or anything."

"What? Oh, no, you weren't...I mean, I didn't mean that...I mean, I wasn't...!" the young man stammered.

This propelled the two women into another bout of laughter. "What is it, Tim?" Julia said finally.

"Well, Bard wanted you to know that there was an opening on Wednesday nights for a regular performer, and he wanted to know if you'd be interested. Julia, I mean. Ahh...playing the piano, that is. Though if you wanted to do something else, that might be okay, but I thought he meant the piano. I could be wrong, though, since he never really said..."

"Julia, that's great!" Alyssa exclaimed. "Congratulations!"

"...you know, you're usually playing the piano, and he knows you're usually playing the piano, I just figured he meant—" the young man was continuing.

"Tell him I'd love to," Julia said. "And thank him for me, please?"

He nodded. "Right!" For a moment, he just stood there, staring at them. "Oh! So I'll...go do that, then."

"Thank you, Tim," Julia said.

"You're welcome! I mean, um...bye!" He hurried off down the hall.

Alyssa laughed. "He will _never_ survive in this city."

"This is incredible!" Julia said. "I'll actually be playing solo! I can't believe it!"

"Hey, it was a long time coming," Alyssa said, smiling warmly. "Are you ready to go yet?"

Julia nodded. "Sure."

The two stepped back into the hall. "So, someone should probably tell your secret admirer," Alyssa said teasingly. "He was here again today; did you see him?"

"Mm-hmm. Right where he always is. His two friends were there too."

"How many times is this, anyway? Alyssa asked. "Four? Six?"

"I don't know," Julia admitted.

"Well, I'd be getting scared if I were you," Alyssa said. "Would you like to borrow my bodyguard?"

Julia shook her head. "I don't think he's going to hurt me. He can't even look me in the eyes. I think it's kind of sweet." She swung open the door to the back exit. "He has lovely eyes, have you noticed that?"

"Oh no, dear. You're starting to sound like you're falling for your stalker."

"He's not a stalker!" Julia defended. "He just likes to see me play." She paused for a moment as they stepped out onto the sidewalk. "You know, I think you're just jealous that _you're_ not the one he can't take his eyes off of."

Alyssa raised her eyebrows. "Oh, my! We're on a roll tonight, aren't we?"

Julia laughed, in doing so neglecting to pay close attention as they rounded a turn in the sidewalk. As a result, she collided head-on with a man coming from the opposite direction. He looked to be in his late thirties, with a Galbadian flag uniform bearing what looked to be shining new Colonel's stars. After the impact, Julia jumped back a little too hard, nearly falling flat onto the sidewalk. She was saved, however, by the man's quick reflexes, and caught before her dignity took too much of a blow.

"I'm terribly sorry, ladies," the man said, helping Julia regain her balance.

Julia shook her head. "No, please, it was my fault. I wasn't watching where I was going."

"Well, then I should have been all the more careful," the man replied, smiling slightly. "Well, no harm done, I hope?"

"None at all," Julia said, sidestepping to clear the path in front of him. "Good night, sir."

"Ladies." The man nodded politely, and continued on his way.

Once he was out of earshot, Alyssa took her by the arm. "All right, Julia, that's it. Have you been sampling the drinks bar at the club a little early today?"

"Alyssa!"


	4. News at Six

_**June 16**_

**Channel 8 News, Timber city  
12:29 LST**

"To recap our international news for this afternoon: This morning saw the official opening of the Horizon Rail Line, with a ceremony at Seaside Station attended by several dignitaries from Timber, Dollet, and Galbadia. The first train completed the trip to Esthar in just under twelve hours, with a manifest of 641 passengers, 453 tons of cargo, and eight Moombas. Meanwhile in Timber, strikes continue to cripple the continental rail system, and the leaders of Dollet and Galbadia have both expressed concern. Speaking at a factory in central Monterosa, President Deling said he hoped the crises would be resolved, quote, 'with immediate speed.' And this just in, Speaker Yaulny has issued a statement in reply, saying foreign powers should, quote, 'keep their noses out of Timber's business.'

"And finally, the Citizens' Liberties League has charged that medical data have been turned over by the government to Esthar authorities, including brain scans that may help determine if patients possess latent magical ability. CLL chairman Mickey Ronell noted that it was Adel's kidnapping of children thought to posses a natural magical talent that initially sparked the Sorceress War. Adel's inability to find a suitable successor has reportedly fueled concerns in her inner circles that the last Sorceress-led government in the world may be coming to an end.

"And that's all for today's noon update. This is Kellin Tilmitt, with the Timber Global News. Thanks a lot for joining us, and have a nice day."

"...Okay, we're out! Nice work everybody, and we'll see you again same time tomorrow."

Kellin stretched, rising from behind the news desk. "Seriously, guys, what is the problem with putting some leg room down there?"

"That news desk has been there since this TV station was built," said one of the technical crew who was working on a camera assembly.

Kellin gave him a look. "This building is four years old."

"Look, if you want to get the Evening News spot, I wouldn't be complaining so much."

"I feel like my legs are going to fall off," Kellin grumbled, sorting his cue papers into his briefcase. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to take them home with him, but no one had objected yet. "—Oh, hey, Jeg, who the hell wrote this version of the recap segment? Especially the Deling quote; what does 'immediate speed' even _mean_?"

"It's not our fault the guy gives the lamest quotes in the history of time," said his producer. "I seriously don't know why everyone in Galbadia likes the guy."

"Because he saved the world from Adel, remember?" Kellin replied. "With naught but a single revolver and his indomitable will, or however the legend goes now."

"Well, it sure as hell wasn't through charisma. Say what you will about Yaulny, but at least he isn't boring."

"Yeah," said Kellin. "We're so lucky I could cry." He finally managed to stuff everything into his briefcase, and was about to leave when a shorter man with large glasses bustled into the newsroom.

"Hey, Kellin!" he bubbled. "Great work today; I really liked the way you introduced that thing on the housing district. Great work!"

"Thanks, Trent." Kellin headed for the exit.

"Hey, you heard anything yet about the evening spot? I hear there's some guy from Continental Broadcasting that Nolan's looking at. But hey, no pressure, huh?" He laughed.

"Right."

"I mean, I'm sure she'll want to keep things inside the company, right? So, like, you've totally got the inside track there. Just, you know, remember all the little people when you're this big News at Six sensation, okay?" He laughed again.

"See you, Trent."

"Hey, you bet! I'll talk to you tomor —"

The doors closed behind Kellin as he stepped out of the massive TV station and headed for the tram. The station was one of the tallest buildings in Timber, and the vantage allowed one to look out across almost the entire city, from the railway stations to the expansive forest that in places even forced its way inside the city limits. It was an impressive sight, but not so pleasant a one as the rail tram just pulling into the station as he approached. Kellin didn't even remember how many times he had missed the tram just this past week.

Not wanting to take any chances, he hurried onto the tram, and found himself a seat on one of the benches running along the wall near the exit. He started to reach into his coat for his newspaper, and just then realized that he didn't have his coat with him. He must have left it in the station.

"Shoot," he muttered. Should he abandon his spot on the tram and run back for his coat, or do without it and his newspaper for today? He didn't much like either option.

As it happened, the tram operator solved that problem for him. Before he could have made it out, the doors slid shut, and the car began to move, leaving the TV station behind and descending toward the city business district. Kellin sighed; if that coat wasn't there when he came to work tomorrow, he would be very unhappy.

As the tram rolled into the business district, he stepped out scanning around for a newspaper box. When he finally spotted one outside the large _Timber Daily Register_ building, he was already becoming worried about not making it back to the tram before it left, so he hurried up to the dispensary and gave it the requested fifty gil without much pretense of politeness or dignity.

"Hey!" a voice came from behind him as he removed the newspaper, which turned out to be the last one in the machine. He turned around to see a young woman, slightly shorter than he was, with close-cut light brown hair, running up to the dispensary. "Are you gonna read that?" she asked, nodding to the newspaper.

Kellin blinked. "...I was planning on it."

"Aah." Her hands were clasped before her waist, and she was twiddling her thumbs, looking thoughtful.

Kellin watched her for a second, but she didn't say anything else. "...I'm gonna walk this way now," he said, pointing back towards the tram.

"Right," she said. After another second, Kellin started walking. "...I'm Angie, by the way," she said, walking with him.

"Okay," said Kellin, opening the newspaper.

"Um—" She reached for the paper hesitantly. "Sorry, but can I —" Kellin stopped walking. "I'm not a crazy person. Really. It's just there's a story about my friend in there, and I've been trying to find a paper all morning and..." She shrugged.

"Ah," said Kellin, sort-of understanding. "Yeah, there's kinda been a run on the news with the strike and all. What's the story?"

"Oh, it's a big feature about, uh..." She snapped her fingers, searching for some word that wasn't coming to her. "...Owls."

Kellin blinked. "Owls?"

"He's some kind of bird-watcher...something." She winced. "I don't really know; that's why I need to read the story. I'm meeting him and a bunch of other friends for dinner so we can celebrate the story, or something in the story. All I know is he sounded really excited on the phone, and I couldn't figure out exactly what he was talking about."

"Right," said Kellin. As he did, the tram's doors slid shut and it started to roll away. He sighed. "...Um, here's a thought. I haven't eaten yet; you want to catch lunch and we'll share the paper?"

She raised her eyebrows. "...Yeah, okay. I like food."

"Cool. Oh — do you mind if we head down to the East Square? I know a good sidewalk diner out that way."

"East square...," she repeated. "You wanna eat with the rioters?"

"Hey," said Kellin. "They're strikers, not rioters."

"Yeah, okay," she said, with a tone that suggested something other than agreement. "I hear they started burning tires now. I mean, where'd they even _get_ tires? They work for the railroad."

"It's not like I want to join them," he said. "I just want to see what's up. I work for the Global News, see."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah; right now I'm the anchor for the 12:00 update. 'This is Kellin Tilmitt with your news at noon.'"

She frowned at him, and he could spot the moment when recognition hit her. "—Oh! Wow, yeah. I've _seen_ you before; how did I not..." She shook her head.

"Don't worry about it," said Kellin. "The 12:00 is no big deal; people always have it on while they're doing something else."

Another tram was approaching the eastbound station, and he nodded in its direction questioningly. She shrugged, and they headed towards it.

It took about ten minutes to reach the East Square; and since the tram was stuffed with noon-hour patrons there was little opportunity for small talk. When they arrived, Kellin had to admit that the strike rally that filled the square _did_ look like it was approaching riot status. The square was filled with men shouting slogans angrily at anyone within range and holding signs denouncing rail privatization in some of the most apocalyptic terms imaginable. (In particular, a homemade one reading DON'T LET YAULNY TAKE OUR CHILDREN caught Kellin's attention; he guessed it referred to the child benefits the union said workers would lose with privatization, but some of the others were still more inexplicable.) Men standing on platforms in the midst of the crowd were egging it on with loudspeakers, and there were columns of black smoke rising around them, along with the distinct smell of rubber burning. At the front of the crowd, protesters were jostling with police who had formed a line to keep them well clear of the Horizon Line station, the immediate focus of their ire.

"You said this was an open-air diner?" Angie asked, yelling over the din of shouted slogans as they got off the tram.

"We can probably eat inside," said Kellin, marveling at the scene. "...It wasn't near this bad in the video we had this morning."

"What did I tell you?" she asked. The tram immediately started to pull away, as if the driver was anxious to get away from the scene. "...It's kinda weird the trams are still running with all this, though."

"Different management," Kellin said. "Timber Rail is a national agency; the trams are run by the city." He pointed the direction of the diner, and they started towards it while giving the crowd a wide berth. "So, you don't like unions?"

She shrugged. "My dad was in the Railmen; he was a tracklayer on the Horizon Line before they sold it off. They took his money, then broke his legs when he complained about who they gave it to. I mean, obviously it _sounds_ like a good idea; the little people band together to stand up to the Man, but after a while the guys they put in charge stop being the little people. Power corrupts, you know?"

"Fair enough," acknowledged Kellin. "Here we go."

As it turned out, they wouldn't have been able to dine outdoors anyway, as most of the chairs appeared to be gone. Kellin wondered if they might be what some of the loudspeaker-wielding men were standing on. They went inside, and when the door closed, the environment became more pleasant by an order of magnitude.

"This all must be fun for you, though," said Angie, nodding out towards the crowd. "I mean, hours and hours of coverage of people yelling and screaming." Kellin raised an eyebrow at her, and after a second, she laughed a bit self-consciously. "I didn't mean that to come out like you were...but, you know."

"I'm starting to reconsider sharing the paper with you," said Kellin as they were pointed to a table. Grinning mischievously, Angie snatched the newspaper from under his arm just before they sat down. "—Hey!"

Angie shrugged, and started flipping through it.

"Yeah, well, see if I'm going to pay for your food now," Kellin grumbled.

Outside, a good-sized brick was hurled over the heads of the policemen and bounced off one of the revolving doors to the Horizon station. Kellin only saw it as a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye as a waitress arrived with their menus.

—

**Timber Executive Office Building, Timber city  
6:13 LST**

The Situation Center in Timber's executive building hadn't seen too much activity since the end of the Sorceress War. Most military offices were headquartered in the garrison at the other end of town, and most military activities in peacetime were handled by the Secretary of Arms, whose department was headquartered in the Congress building across the street. The Situation Center was for the use of the president's staff, and the president only assumed direct military authority in times of crisis.

The room had been getting steadily busier throughout the day.

In one corner stood the office that had been commandeered by Timber's Marshall of Arms. Far too small to have been intended for a flag officer's use, dominated by a square table on which a map of Timber was laid out. A TV mounted in the corner was tuned to the news, which the Marshall had been watching before the Captain stepped in.

"Captain," the marshall said, turning toward him. "We haven't met."

"No, sir." He saluted, right hand flat and pointed at his ear with palm outward, as precise as he could make it. "Captain Diric Almasy, home guard."

The Marshall returned the salute. "Marshall Brock Lindahl, unified command." This was a formality; Lindahl had commanded Timber's forces through much of the Sorceress War, and just about everyone in the country knew who he was. "At ease." He turned back to the TV. "I'm not sure why we're bothering with intelligence updates; the news has a dozen reporters at every protest site, and the video airs within minutes." Almasy didn't reply, and he went on. "So what do we know that the News at Six doesn't?"

"We've confirmed they've blocked three major roads now," said Almasy. "And windows were smashed at Horizon Rail's main office a few minutes ago."

"They know that," said Lindahl. He looked away from the TV, which was indeed showing footage of protesters hurling chairs into Horizon's corporate headquarters. "And the president won't ask about Horizon's windows. Talk to me about the Guard."

Almasy blinked. "Sir?"

"The situation is graduating from civic unrest to a full-scale uprising," the Marshall said. "The president needs to know if he can expect it to be put under control." He checked his watch. "And he needs to know now. Let's go."

"Ah—what?" asked Almasy, ducking away from the doorway to allow Lindahl to pass. "I'm briefing the president?"

Lindahl led him out of the Situation Center and down the hall towards into the North Wing. "You're the expert, Captain. I don't have time to familiarize myself with the details."

"Uhh." On the one hand, this was a tremendous opportunity that Almasy could have only dreamed about. On the other, it wasn't hard to imagine scenarios in which he would utterly screw up. "I've only been on this job for a year," he protested. "There are people with more seniority —"

"Unfortunately, they aren't here right now," Lindahl said, "and there's a reason for that. If you think hard enough, I'm sure you'll discover what it is."

"Marshall!" He stopped walking. Lindahl, looking mildly exasperated, did as well and turned to face him. "I'm not remotely comfortable with this."

Lindahl frowned at him for a moment. "Well, that's unfortunate. Captain, the president is making a prime-time address on the crisis in 45 minutes, and he has yet to decide on a course of action. He needs you to provide the knowledge he needs to do so. Now—" He lowered his voice. "Simply be honest, and hold nothing back. Your president needs you, Captain."

Almasy gulped, and straightened. "Of course, sir."

"Then let's continue," said Lindahl, and kept walking without ceremony.

They passed through a maze of cubicles filled with papers and still more bustling people, with an atmosphere that totally negated the elegance of the wood paneling on the walls. Then they passed through a set of wide double doors marked with the Timber national crest, leading into a much calmer office with one desk on either side wall facing towards the center. At the opposite side, there was yet another door.

"Hello again, Viki," said Lindahl. "Is he ready?"

"He's expecting you," said the woman seated at the right-hand desk, standing and opening the far door. "Mr. President? Marshall Lindahl is here." Almasy heard a muffled response, and the woman turned back to them and nodded. Lindahl led them in.

The president's office was octagonal, with four sides about as long as the facing wall of his reception room and the other four about half that. The northern, eastern and western sides were all lined with windows offering an impressive view across the National Plaza; Almasy could see the H-shaped Congress Building through the north windows, which were directly behind the president's desk. A trio of couches were set to make a rectangle with the desk, a chandelier that evoked the leaves of a Lanker oak hung from the center of the ceiling and various portraits and artifacts decorated the walls.

At first, the president himself was almost invisible against the grandeur of the room. He had been sitting at his desk, frowning at some file or other, but Almasy didn't notice him until he closed it and looked up at Lindahl. Quisman was in his early fifties and balding, though what hair he still had showed only the barest signs of graying; while tall, he had a slight build and looked more like an accountant or academy professor than a president. Still, he had an owlish seriousness about him that commanded respect at least.

"I just received the preliminaries from the Commerce Department," he said, removing his reading glasses and tucking them into his pocket as he stood. "Our losses just from today will probably be in the hundreds of thousands of gil. Tomorrow, they'll be in the millions. I think we can stop saying that this is _getting_ out of hand and acknowledge that it's there."

Lindahl didn't answer directly. "Mr. President, this is Captain Diric Almasy, from the Home Guard. He's prepared an assessment of the situation."

Quisman nodded, and turned to Almasy. There was silence for a moment. "...Feel free to start talking, Captain."

"—Yes, sir," said Almasy. "Ah...well, the unions' goal is repeal of the new privatization bill. Since they expect the rail system will be sold to Horizon, which doesn't allow unions, it's viewed as a life-or-death struggle by the leadership. They're unlikely to back down."

"Yes, I know that much,' said Quisman. "But how deep does the sentiment go? What are the chances people will go home after, say, a week or so?"

"That won't happen," said Almasy. "—In my opinion, Mr. President."

Quisman raised his eyebrows. "Why not? In your opinion." Almasy hesitated. "I don't have all evening, Captain."

"...They think they'll lose their jobs, sir. Horizon, or any other non-union company, will see them as a risk because they were in a union, so they won't get hired. And there's not a lot of jobs out there right now, plus most of them haven't got any savings to speak of. To them it's a matter of whether they have food for their families or not. They'll go the distance."

"Hmm." The president nodded. "It seems you're quite familiar with how they think," he said.

"A lot of them are reservists," said Almasy. "Fought during the war. We keep in touch."

Quisman frowned. "And that's the case for many others in the Home Guard, I'd imagine."

"I believe so," said Almasy.

"Mm." Quisman looked at Lindahl, who nodded. The president then hesitated a moment, looking at Almasy with a searching expression that was a bit off-putting. "I'll be direct about this, Captain. The unrest is already at the edge of riot status, and our police have so far completely failed to bring it under control. The logical next step would be to deploy the Home Guard to disperse the protesters. I need you to tell me whether such an order would be followed."

Almasy blinked. "Uh. ...Mr. President..." He needed a few more seconds to work out what to say. There were any number of ways in which he could step on a mine during this line of discussion.

"Captain," said Lindahl. "Answer the president's question."

"...I'm not sure I feel comfortable making that assessment," said Almasy.

"I feel many things right now, Captain," said the president. "Comfortable isn't one of them. Now, will the Home Guard do what I tell it to?"

"Of course, the guard respects your authority, sir," said Almasy.

Quisman needed no time to decode that statement. "But?" he said, raising his eyebrows and folding his arms.

Almasy sighed. "Mr. President, the sentiment is that when it voted to privatize Timber Rail, Congress abandoned the workers, who are now just trying to be heard. It doesn't seem justified to deny them that."

"Oh, I heard them," said Quisman. "Privatization is a stupid move, and I've said so repeatedly. But this isn't about that anymore. I can't let people shut down the capital city with a blatantly illegal strike just because they don't like a law that's been passed. In this country, we abide by democracy and the rule of law — to say nothing of we're in the middle of a delicate recovery from a devastating war, and we can't afford to lose millions of gil in business each day over this." He uncrossed his arms, and let out a frustrated breath. "It's the Home Guard's duty to ensure domestic tranquility. They don't have to agree with my orders; they have to follow them."

"...Of course I agree, Mr. President," Almasy said, chastened. "But it's not that simple for many others. Union ties are very strong, especially since the police union is supporting the Railmen. I think at best, it would divide the guard and inflame sentiment among sympathizers that the government is being too harsh."

Quisman turned away, looking out the western window towards the sunset. Smoke from protest fires was rising into the sky, and one column cut straight across the sun's disk. "So, Captain, if you were me, what would you do?"

"Repeal the law," said Almasy, without thinking.

The president turned back to him. "I can't repeal laws. So if you were _me_, what would you do?"

Almasy hesitated, having had a chance to think about what he was saying. "...I don't know, Mr. President. But I think the situation would only worsen if you force the Home Guard to choose sides."

Quisman nodded. "All right. Thank you for your candor, Captain. That'll be all."

After a moment's hesitation, Almasy saluted and left. Lindahl, who had been hanging back, stepped forward and waited for the president to speak.

"This is a ridiculous position to be in," said Quisman. "If Yaulny hadn't pushed through the most extreme and idiotic version of his law, we wouldn't be here. Now I have to suppress a mob of people who have every reason to be upset, and I can't trust the Home Guard to follow my orders."

"And there's no chance Congress will repeal the law?" asked Lindahl.

"At this point, I don't think they should," said Quisman. "It's not about the law anymore. It's about the limits of responsible protest. If we don't bring this uprising under control, who knows what the next one will be about, or how bad it will get."

Lindahl frowned. "Mr. President, I know you've been in contact with Galbadia on this matter. And I'd point out that relying on outside support to settle a domestic uprising could also set a dangerous precedent."

"I know President Deling; he's a friend," said Quisman. "If it weren't for him, Timber would be under Esthar's rule now. And when Yaulny wanted him to withdraw his troops, he did. And the sad fact of the matter is that he's more trustworthy right now than our own soldiers are."

"It'll send a terrible signal to our own soldiers," said Lindahl. "To say nothing of the unions or the general public. They'll say we've sold out our national interest to the Galbadians."

"Galbadia doesn't want privatization any more than the unions do," Quisman said. "And in any case, the message right now needs to be that we'll do whatever it takes to maintain law and order. If it comes back to bite me at the next election, so be it. _That_'s how the system is supposed to work."

Lindahl nodded, sighing. "It's quite a tightrope act. If we fall off..."

"I usually try not to," said Quisman. Stepping back behind his desk, he activated the intercom. "Viki, I'll need to speak to the Secretaries of Arms, the Interior and Foreign Affairs, and Speaker Yaulny, as soon as possible. ...The speechwriters, too."

"_Yes, Mr. President,"_ said Viki's voice through the intercom. After Quisman deactivated it, he turned back to Lindahl.

"I'll use my address to tell the demonstrators to go home," he said. "And I'll order the Home Guard to disperse them. If they don't, I'll call Deling tomorrow morning. And Hyne help us all."


	5. Works in Progress

_**June 18**_

**Galbadia Joint Command Center, Galbadia City  
13:53 MDT**

Caraway and the two other colonels tasked with planning the Timber deployment had been given their own office in the base complex. It was essentially a converted large storage closet, with three folding tables for desks and two more pushed together in the center of the room to hold maps of Timber city and the Dollet continent. The maps were covered with cardboard squares labeled in color-coded marker, indicating riot hotspots, the position of Timber's forces at present and those of Galbadian troops in the planned deployment. It was becoming quite a busy map.

"I think we can discount using the trains," said Colonel Brand, as he stepped into the office with a folder under one arm and a bowl of noodles in his hand. "We've just confirmed that Timber's given up on trying to reinstate any service into or out of the city."

"That's essentially what we expected," said Naraka, who was hovering over the map. "We'll have to proceed using the roads."

"Timber's road access is ridiculously underdeveloped," said Caraway, who was at his desk reading a report. "The highways lead you into the most random areas of town, and it's virtually impossible to reach the city center by car. I think we may have to commandeer use of one of the rail lines."

"That would leave us with a highly vulnerable resupply chain," said Naraka.

"Maybe not." Brand quickly swallowed a mouthful of noodles. "Timber might have given up trying to disperse the rioters, and half the Home Guard's threatening to mutiny if they're told to use force; but they _have_ managed to secure the railroads and government buildings."

"Yes, for now," said Naraka. "But these riots _will_ get worse. The Timber police are already hiding in their basements – or joining the rioters – and I think trusting _any_ of Timber's soldiers is a mistake."

"Well, if we do our job right, the riots stop once we get there," said Brand.

"The riots will _intensify_ when our troops arrive," Naraka replied. "Our presence will introduce another element to what is for now a domestic turmoil. It's a foolish thing to involve ourselves in."

"It's the president's call," said Caraway.

"Yes," said Naraka, a bit disdainfully. "...I'm going to see if they have the latest force projections." With that, he left.

Brand watched him depart. "...And there goes Colonel Sunshine," he said.

"He has a point," Caraway said. "The last time we were in Timber, it was as liberators. Now..." He leaned back in his chair, sighing. "It's strange. I was there for more than a year during and after the war. Hearing about all this on the news, I barely recognize the place."

"Well, you transferred out to East Academy after the peace deal, right?" asked Brand. "That's why. Everything changed after that: They weren't united against the Sorceress anymore, so people started noticing what terrible shape their country was in and started looking for someone to blame when things didn't get better fast enough. For some people it was government mismanagement, or corporate greed, Galbadian troops — you name it. Same thing happened here before Deling was elected; probably still would be if everyone didn't think he was Hyne incarnate or something."

"Hmm," said Caraway; the explanation made sense, but it didn't shake the feeling that something seemed wrong.

"Oh, that reminds me. You hear the Assembly's thinking about renaming the capital?"

Caraway nodded. "After the President, right? It's ridiculous."

"I dunno," said Brand. "'Deling City?' It has a nice ring to it."

"It's a way for Assemblymen to get on record that they support the president ahead of the fall elections," he said. "Something meaningless like renaming the capital is a lot easier to do than anything that really makes a difference."

"Well, privatizing the rails made a difference — and look how that's working out for Timber," said Brand. "Besides, don't forget about all the southern provinces who're unhappy that the capital and the country have the same name. At least _they_'ll be happy."

Caraway shook his head. "Politics is just ridiculous sometimes."

Brand shrugged. "That's why I'm in the militia. You just shoot at the guy who's shooting at you."

Then they were joined by one of the base staff, a young woman with Sergeant's bars. "New projections, sirs," she said, tossing folders onto each of their desks. "You're gonna love 'em. Turns out we have guns for almost half the troops."

"Brilliant," said Brand, more amused by her tone than the news. "What does the other half get?"

"We're working on that," she said.

Caraway sighed. "Requisition does know we're shipping out tomorrow, right?"

"They just hand out the guns," she said. "They don't build them. For now, I'd like to transfer some of the weapons issued to Division Six, since they won't be shipping out for another few days and we might still scare up some more for them in that time. And I did talk with the people from the Timber army's supply department; they might agree to lend us some equipment for the mission."

"Naraka'll love that," said Brand.

"Thanks, Helena," said Caraway.

"No problem. —Oh, I almost forgot. Gerard and I are going out for late dinner tonight at the Executive; he's got a friend visiting from Balamb. We'd love it if you came."

"Wish I could," said Brand. "Family night. Em's bringing Raea back from the hospital."

"Oh, already?" asked Helena. "I thought she was just born a week or so ago."

Brand shook his head. "Three weeks, two days. I've been counting."

"I'll bet," Helena said. "Well, tell them both I said hi." She directed her attention to Caraway. "What about you, Colonel?"

"You should," said Brand. "The food's terrific. Stay away from the beer, though."

Caraway shrugged. "Well, why not?"

"Great," said Helena. "—Oh, and the President wanted your revised deployment plan before 16:00." Caraway nodded, and she left.

"You didn't tell me Raea was coming home," said Caraway.

"Yep," Brand confirmed. "Great timing, isn't it? At least I get one night with her before I ship out to save Timber for democracy. Speaking of which—"

"Yes," Caraway agreed. "We should get back to work. I think the No. 4 rail line is our best bet; it runs straight through Timber's Central Square, and normally isn't used except for special parade events. It gives us easiest access to the city's hot spots."

"All right," said Brand. "Let's go to the map." And they set about rearranging the cardboard pieces once more.

—

**Galbadia City Railway Station  
15:14 MDT**

"_Attention. The train from Dollet has just arrived at Platform One. The trains to Timber and Dingo are currently not in service. Please stand behind the white line."_

Even with most of the trains canceled, Galbadia's rail station was a buzz of activity. Situated underground beneath the southern part of the city, the station had been spared from Dollet shelling, and seemed to have recovered completely from the years of war. The Galbadian soldiers present, who were screening every passenger coming or going, seemed to do nothing to stymie the flow of people on and off the waiting trains.

A man stepped off the just-arrived train, peering through the crowd as he absently adjusted the strap of his carrying bag. He was in his mid-twenties, with short-cropped brown hair and glasses. He wore no coat or tie over his brown plaid shirt, merely an old grey vest, and seemed the stereotypical studious yet slightly absent-minded young librarian.

As he made his way up the line of passengers waiting to pass through the Galbadian checkpoints, he was intercepted by a slightly older man wearing a Galbadian officer's uniform.

"Cid!" the second man exclaimed.

The first man's face brightened. "Gerard!" he greeted, clasping the other man's hand as he looked over the uniform. "Wow..._Captain_ Martine! You're advancing rather quickly, aren't you?"

"Galbadia is very rewarding to soldiers who betray the Dollet Dukedom," the second man replied. "After all, if it weren't for us, Galbadia wouldn't _have_ an army."

Cid laughed. "Well, if they were really going to reward you, couldn't they have found you a more pleasant uniform?"

"Give it time, Cid. My command is still deciding on what the official model should be. 'Is blue too flashy for the soldiers?' 'Can we afford to give everyone helmets?' 'Should we make the helmets different colors?' 'Perhaps we should put a big Galbadian logo on the chest, like a bulls-eye!'" Both men laughed. "It's all part of the joy of serving a new republic."

"So why did you come down here, Gerard?" Cid asked. "Was Helena afraid I wouldn't be able to find your new apartment?"

Martine smiled. "Not exactly." As they approached the checkpoint, his expression became serious, and he lowered his voice. "There's still a great deal of suspicion regarding outsiders, especially Dollet nationals. Helena thought that if you were seen with a man in Galbadian uniform, they would give you less trouble."

Cid raised his eyebrows. "That's reassuring."

They reached the pair of Galbadian soldiers. "Papers, please," one asked. Cid obligingly handed over his passport, which the soldier scrutinized, frowning. "You're from Dollet?"

"Well, I live in Balamb," Cid replied. "But I grew up in Dollet City, so I'm a citizen, yes."

"Purpose of visit?"

"Personal. I'm visiting a friend."

"Me, actually," Martine spoke up. "Captain Gerard Martine, Galbadian Militia Division Two." He showed them his ID.

Still frowning, the guard nodded. "Very well, everything seems to be in order. Be on good behavior," he gave Cid a pointed look. "And enjoy your stay. Next?"

"Charming fellows," Cid commented once they were out of earshot.

"It's been a difficult few years," Martine said. "A lot of people are still afraid that Dollet will try to reassert control." The two of them stepped onto the escalator that led up to the city. "Some are even saying Dollet spies are behind the unrest in Timber, meaning to cripple us."

"Wonderful."

"So where's your wife?" Martine asked. "Edea, isn't it?"

"She's staying in Balamb," Cid replied, nodding. "I was actually afraid of something like this."

"Cid, if either Helena or I thought you might be in any danger, we would have told you not to come," Martine said.

"I know. I suppose I was just nervous, that's all."

Martine nodded. "I understand. Still, I was looking forward to meeting her."

"Sorry," Cid said. "You should visit Balamb sometime. I'd love to have someone else there whom I can talk to about something other than their kids' participation grades."

"Now, I'd been meaning to ask you about that. Weren't you going to become a lib—"

"'—rarian or a reporter or anything _other_ than a schoolteacher?'" Cid joined in. "Well, you know, the job market in Balamb is terribly competitive, as there is _no_ library and the local newspaper staff numbers all of six." He laughed. "I was lucky to get a job at the school; it's not much better. There are only a hundred students, you know."

"You can't be serious. Even Balamb isn't _that_ small."

"I am _completely_ serious. The harbor makes up a third of the town."

The two friends finally made it to the top of the stairs, and headed out into the city.

—

**Monterosa Plains  
19:57 MDT**

"Hey, Laguna, we can't even see the city anymore!"

Laguna didn't break his stride. "Relax, guys! We'll just go back the way we came!"

"The sun's going down," Ward observed. "I knew we should have brought a flashlight!"

"Are you kidding?" scoffed Laguna. "Those guys in Requisition make you _pay_ for them!" Laguna insisted. "What am I, made of gil?"

"Laguna, I really don't think this is our patrol," Kiros said. "Why don't you check the map, while there's still enough light?"

"Fine!" Laguna stopped, shoving his hand into his pocket. There was nothing there. "?" He checked again. Then he checked his other pockets. One had a half-eaten ration bar, which he briefly considered finishing.

"Laguna, what's wrong?"

"Ahh..." He dropped the ration bar. It made a sort of cracking sound as it hit the ground. "I don't have the map. I must have left it back at Base."

Kiros sighed. "That's it. We're going back."

"HEY!" Laguna exclaimed. "I'm the squad leader, remember? Besides, what if Dollet decides to invade? Do you guys want to be the ones who cause the fall of Galbadia?"

"I think you're exaggerating our importance, Laguna."

"Let him go, Kiros," Ward said. "After all, if the Militia finds out he got lost again, he might get fired, and then he'll never pay us back."

"Yeah...when _are_ you going to pay us back, Laguna?"

Laguna tripped over a rock. "Arrggh! Look, guys, I promised I'd pay you back, right? I just don't exactly have the money right now!"

"Yeah, that nightclub is really a drain on the cash account, isn't it?" Ward observed. "Tell you what. We'll call it even...if the next time we see Julia, you go up to her and say hi."

Laguna tripped again. There was no rock this time. "What – I mean who – I mean, why —" he stammered. "Look, guys, I don't know what you're talking about, okay! Did you ever think that maybe I just like bitter booze?"

"Laguna —"

"Or maybe I just like being in someplace classy, you know? I mean, Julia — I mean whoever you're talking about —"

"Laguna —"

"I mean, she's a professional, right? Like, how would we feel if someone ran up in the middle of our patrol and said —"

"LOOK OUT!"

Laguna turned around just to see the dark silhouette of a giant, four-winged bird bearing down on him. "_Woah_!" Instinctively, he jumped backwards, immediately losing his footing and falling to the ground. The bird passed over him, its claws a hairbreadth above his face in the instant before it thrust itself back into the air. Laguna scrabbled about, looking for the gun he had dropped sometime during this sequence of events.

Ward hurled his spear at the bird as it circled them, but missed as the creature rose higher into the air. Then, it dove down on him as he ran to retrieve his weapon; Ward attempted to block its attack with his arm, but its claws cut right through the fabric of his uniform and left him with a nasty arm wound. As he searched his pack for a Potion, Laguna's hand closed around a metal object that he quickly identified as his machinegun, Laguna leaped to his feet, fumbling with the weapon in an attempt to get it pointed the right way.

Kiros charged the bird, cutting a nasty slash into one of its lower wings. The creature cried out, beating its wings almost as if it were attempting to slap Kiros as it lifted away from the ground. Around then, Laguna's finger found the trigger of his gun.

"Alright!" he shouted in accomplishment. "Take this!" Squeezing the trigger, he proceeded to unload his weapon on the retreating bird. At first, it didn't seem to notice, and Laguna thought to take the time to aim the gun. The creature's body soon was overcome with convulsions from the gunfire, and it finally collapsed in a crumpled heap to the ground.

"Hah!" Laguna shouted, still firing. "How do you like that, huh! Thought you could just come down here and mess with Galbadia, you big ugly —"

"LAGUNA!" Kiros exclaimed. Laguna stopped shooting. "I think you _got_ it."

"Right." Laguna nodded. "Just making sure, you know." He looked down at his gun clip. There were three bullets left.

"So..." Ward said, after a short pause. "What do you say we report back to base, check out, and get smashed in some bar?"

Laguna nodded vigorously. "Sure. I think we've done our part to protect Galbadia tonight. Let's go!" He started running back towards the lights of Galbadia.

"Hey, wait, Laguna!" Kiros stopped him. "So are you going to do it or not?"

"Do what?" Laguna asked.

"Say hi to Julia." He folded his arms. "Come on, you can't fool us."

"Yeah," Ward interjected. "You're totally into her. It's obvious."

Laguna shook his head most vigorously. "WHATEVER-man! ...Look, okay. I'll do it — but don't think it means anything! I just don't like owing you guys money, that's all."

Kiros and Ward exchanged a look.

"Hey! I saw that!"

—

**Republic Executive Hotel  
20:18 MDT**

"Welcome," said the waitress at the hotel bar. "Your table's ready, Captain Martine. This way, please."

Cid had grown up in Dollet, but he had usually only seen restaurants as chic as the Executive's lounge from the outside. It wasn't large, but that was part of the point too, as it carried a sense of exclusivity. The ceiling was high, and a pair of large chandeliers that he guessed were each worth about as much as his Balamb apartment provided some of the light. It was a bit incongruous to see the place occupied mostly by soldiers in Galbadian combat uniforms; the armor-plated blue and red jumpsuits didn't really seem to indicate the sort of high society the hotel had been designed for.

"How many people actually stay at this hotel?" he asked as the group sat down.

"Not many, lately," said Martine. "Galbadia still isn't on the top of most people's tourist lists, and most of the postwar business has gone to Timber."

"For all the good it's done them," said Helena wryly.

"Most of the business comes from...well, people like us," said Martine. "The Militia's probably the best-paying job in Galbadia at the moment."

"Yes," agreed Colonel Caraway, who was wearing his black dress uniform, and partly as a result seemed like the classiest person in the bar. "It's the joy of independence."

"Well, things are already picking up," said Helena. "For the first few months, almost nobody would come out, and you didn't even need to bother with a reservation. Now there's even a line outside on some nights. That'll probably change with so many active troops heading back to Timber, though. The people left won't have a high enough pay grade for places like this."

"Sounds like you've been here quite a lot," Cid observed.

"I used to work here. I was an event coordinator before the war, which was close enough to military logistics that I found a spot at the Command Office. Still have friends who'll give me a nice discount, though."

"Are you ready to order?" interjected a waitress who had just arrived.

"We'll have the oysters and meat egg," said Helena. "And the Republican platter." She looked around the table. "Anything else?" The others said no.

"And to drink?" asked the waitress.

"Sylkis, I think," said Martine; Caraway nodded.

"Curiel for me, thanks," Cid put in.

"And I'll have a lime soda," said Helena.

"Okay," said the waitress. "That'll be about twenty minutes for the food."

She left, and the diners tried to remember where their conversation had dropped off. "So, are you all being sent to Timber?" asked Cid.

The others nodded. "Divisions Two and Six got tapped for the mission because most of them have been in Timber before, during the war," said Helena. "I'll be at the command base, providing logistical support, coordination, and other highly important yet dull tasks."

"I won't be deployed for another few days yet," said Caraway. "I'll be managing Division Six's transition off the home patrol."

"Hopefully, all the excitement will be over before you even get there," Helena said.

Caraway smiled. "Well, we can hope."

A woman in a red dress had taken a seat at the piano on stage, and began to play. It was a simple melody, and felt a bit roughly written, but she played it in such a way that this didn't particularly matter; the feeling behind the music, a sort of peaceful longing, seemed to transcend the actual notes being played.

"She's quite good," said Cid.

"Mm," Martine agreed.

"I think she plays backup for Alyssa Feran," said Helena. "This is the first time I've seen her solo. Can't remember her name..."

The waitress returned with their drinks, and they listened to the song for a moment longer. Caraway was the first to speak. "So, you're a schoolteacher?" he asked Cid.

"Apparently," said Cid, sighing. "I was planning to be...well, _not_ a teacher, but I got drafted straight out of university, and job options were pretty limited after the war. I'd just married, and we desperately wanted a house; there was an opening in the social science section of Balamb Formal, so I took it."

"Why didn't you stay in the army?" asked Caraway.

"Oh, they wouldn't let me." Cid indicated his glasses. "Nearsighted. They took just about everyone while the war was on; but after the armistice, when they re-instituted the physical aptitude standards, I got an honorable discharge and a 10,000-gil pension. Dollet's been downsizing the army quite a lot, lately; most of the people I served with are out of work now."

"I suppose that's one advantage of a new republic," said Helena. "The Galbadian Militia's just as big as it was during the war; everyone's just gone into reserve. Plus we're building a whole new, professional army on top of it."

"It isn't a little frightening to have everyone in your country keep a gun in their closet?" asked Cid.

"It's proven an effective counter to foreign occupation," said Caraway. "Which is more or less what we've been faced with ever since declaring independence."

Cid became acutely aware that the conversation was heading in a direction he wasn't comfortable with. "Well," he said, "I certainly don't want to get into politics at a table full of Galbadians." This prompted a round of somewhat self-conscious chuckling. "Besides, the war's over now."

"Quite right," said Helena, raising her glass. "To peace, then."

The others joined the toast as the music came to an end. A few seconds later, three Galbadian soldiers rushed through the main entrance, making for the stairs down to the restaurant.

"Excuse me?" asked the receptionist. "Can I help you?"

The lead soldier stood at the top of the steps, panting as he watched the pianist depart the stage. "Are we...too late?"

"Excuse me." The receptionist was a bit more insistent. "If you don't calm down, you'll disturb our guests."

The soldier straightened, hanging his head. "...Yeah, it's cool."

"So we missed her first solo performance?" asked the biggest soldier. "That's harsh, Laguna."

"Hey, shut up!" snapped Laguna. "It's that stupid monster's fault! Otherwise we'd be totally on schedule!"

"Maybe if you'd brought the map...?" Kiros suggested.

"Arrgh!"

"Excuse me!" snapped the receptionist.

"Yeah, yeah..." Laguna shook his head, and began trudging towards the exit.

"Hey, maybe we can go someplace with _cheap_ booze tonight," suggested Ward. "That could be cool."

"Sensible, too," Kiros agreed.

Laguna didn't really hear them.


End file.
